Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  His fingers shook as he added more twigs, then the peat, looking over his shoulder again and again at the woman, willing her to live, to wait for the heat to reach her. He blew on the newborn flames, watched as they turned orange and the blaze grew strong and steady, crackling with life and heat.

  He heard a soft sigh and turned. Now that was good sign, wasn’t it? But her face remained still. He touched her cheek, but it was still more like marble than human flesh. “Lass?” he whispered again, but there was no reply. The ice on her hair and skin was beginning to melt, and the droplets turned to diamonds. She glittered in the firelight, beautiful and still, asleep, or beyond sleep.

  He carefully unwrapped the plaid that covered her, and unfastened the cloak beneath. She was wearing a fine woolen gown, green and soft as summer grass, though the fabric around her neck was wet and almost frozen where the snow had crept down the neck of her cloak. Iain frowned, felt fear creep through him. How long had she been out in the storm? If he hadn’t come this way, had turned aside and tried to make it home to Craigleith, or had taken a path even a few dozen feet to the left or right . . . he swallowed.

  “I need to get you out of your wet clothes, lass, get you warm, check for injuries,” he murmured, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He cupped her head in his hands, checked her skull for bumps, or cuts, or blood, and found none. Her hair was coming loose from the braid that bound it, and the dark waves spilled over his fingers like silk. He took a breath as he reached for the pearl buttons that ran up the front of her gown from waist to collarbone. He unbuttoned them and opened the garment. She did not leap up and rail at him for his audacity. She remained still, and he let his eyes fall on the slopes of her breasts. Her skin was ice cold above the lacy edge of her undergarment. He gently lifted her, cradled her in his arms as he loosened the sleeves of her gown, then slid it off her shoulders and down to her waist.

  He did his best to keep his gaze clinical, but whoever she was, she was lovely. He didn’t doubt that some man was going out of his mind with worry at this moment. He glanced at her left hand. There was no wedding band, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t someone’s wife. He ran his hands down her arms, checking for injuries. There were bruises aplenty, but nothing was broken. He felt for the pulse in her wrist when he reached it, and chafed her hands between his own again, scowling at the fire, willing it to blaze hotter. He laid her down, cradled in a fold of his plaid, and slid his hands over her ribs to a waist that he could span with his hands, finding no hurts there. Her shift was made of fine linen, tied with satin ribbons and embroidered in delicate whitework. She wore no stays, and she needed none. He swallowed and averted his gaze from the pale shadow of her nipples beneath the garment. He concentrated on sliding the gown down over her hips and along the length of her legs, noted that the sodden skirt was torn and stained with blood, and he gritted his teeth, fearing what he might find.

  He drew a sharp breath at the sight of her left leg. A long, shallow gash ran along the side of her knee, bounded by dark bruises and raw scratches. The cold had kept the swelling at bay, prevented it from bleeding much. He sent her an apologetic glance as he ran his hand over the limb. She groaned softly, almost inaudibly, as he touched her injured knee, her brow furrowing. Iain murmured an apology for the pain he knew he must be causing her, but her head lolled again, and she made no further sound as he checked for broken bones. He sat back with a sigh and wiped his brow. Despite the cold, he was sweating. At worst, her knee was probably sprained. It would hurt like the devil when she woke up—­if she woke up.

  Iain pushed that thought away. Her injury needed to be cleaned and bandaged. When she woke, it would start to swell. He had nothing with him for pain, hadn’t expected to encounter anything worse than Illa MacGillivray’s complaints about her aching joints. He’d left Annie’s soothing salve with Illa, and he’d have to make do now, help the lass as best he could. He untied her half boots and peeled away the shredded, bloodied remains of her stockings. Where the devil had she come from? She’s had a hard road of it. . . .

  He covered her respectably with his plaid from thigh to throat and left her long enough to fetch a bucketful of snow. The wind outside was bitter, froze the perspiration on his skin with a single gust. He filled Ewan’s old kettle and put it over the fire, not taking his eyes off her as he waited for the water to warm. He murmured an apology as he exposed her injured limb once again and dipped his handkerchief into the warmed water, using it to clean the wound. The fabric grew cold as soon as it touched her icy limbs. He worked quickly, then soaked the cloth again and bound it carefully around her knee. It needed a proper poultice, and ice to keep it from swelling, but he dared not chill her any further.

  He frowned. She still hadn’t woken. The fire had taken the edge of the chill off the room, but her limbs were waxen, her body unmoving ice. He added more peat to the fire and draped her clothing on the rope that was strung between the rafters, leaving it to dry. He checked her again. Her skin was still cold as death, her breathing shallow, her pulse a whisper under her skin. She still hadn’t opened her eyes. He stroked her forehead, patted her hands, willed her to wake, but she did not.

  Iain drew a deep breath. There was only one thing for it.

  He swallowed hard as he reached for the ties of his shirt, began to undo them. “I hope you won’t mind very much when you wake, lass. I’ll have you know I’m not the kind of man who takes advantage of situations such as this, but I have to get you warm, and there’s only one way I know of to do that. We’ve got the fire, and my plaid, and ourselves. The storm is terrible, or I’d find proper care for you, and proper company, but for now—­” He pulled his shirt over his head. There was no gasp of surprise or outrage at the sight of his naked chest.

  He pulled off his boots, put them next to the fire, beside hers, and began to open the buttons on his breeches. What if she woke now, at this very moment, and saw a half-­naked man standing over her? No doubt the shock of that would warm her quick enough. He turned away, finished the task of undressing as discreetly as he could, and hung his garments over the line next to hers.

  Naked, he opened the plaid and slid in beside her, gasping at the coldness of her body against his flesh. Under the covers he carefully untied the ribbons of her shift and slipped the straps of the garment off her shoulders. He worked it down the length of her body and away, taking care to keep her covered and to not look at what his hands were revealing. But his fingers brushed over her breasts, flitted across her taut stomach, skimmed her hips. He didn’t need to see her to know she was beautiful.

  Iain blessed the fact that he was a gentleman, even as he cursed the fact that he was a man, and she was bonnie. He tossed her shift over the line as well, next to her gown, then dove back beneath the covers, cold himself now. He suppressed a curse as he pulled her limp body into his arms. She was cold as death, the chill radiating from her limbs to fill his own, freezing him instantly. He gritted his teeth and wrapped himself around her, careful of her injured knee, surrounding her with his body heat, wrapping the thick softness of his plaid around them both. His teeth began to chatter in her ear, but she didn’t notice. Would he wake up next to a corpse? He’d do his damnedest not to let that happen. He lay against her, willing the heat and life of his own body into her. He tucked her icy cheek into the crook of his shoulder and laid his fingers on the side of her neck, monitoring her pulse.

  “You’re safe now, lass. Live,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t give up. Stay with me.” Her heart kept beating, her body drawing warmth and comfort from his own, and Iain closed his eyes.

  Beyond the sturdy stone walls, the storm raged on through the night, and slowly he felt her grow warmer, soften against his, soaking up his heat. She curled closer still, pressed her bottom into his groin, her back against his chest. She was soft, sweet, and her curves fitted perfectly to his. The last time he’d spent a cold winter night curled under a plaid with a bonnie lass . . . h
is body reacted as any healthy man’s would, holding a naked beauty in his arms on a cold December night. Iain gritted his teeth and willed the erection away, trying to ignore it as he concentrated on keeping her warm and alive.

  He listened to the guttural chanting of the wind as it circled the sturdy stone cottage, looking for a way in. They were safe here. Still, it was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter Four

  Eighteen days until Christmas

  ALANNA MCNABB WOKE with a terrible headache. In fact, every inch of her body ached. She could smell peat smoke, and dampness, and hear wind. She remembered the storm and opened her eyes. She was in a small dark room, a hut, she realized, a shieling, perhaps, or was it one of the crofter’s cottages at Glenlorne? Was she home, among the ­people who knew her, loved her? She looked around, trying to decide where exactly she was, whose home she was in. The roof beams above her head were blackened with age and soot, and a thick stoneware jug dangled from a nail hammered into the beam as a hook. But that offered no clues at all—­it was the same in every Highland cott. She turned her head a little, knowing there would be a hearth, and—­

  A few feet from her, a man crouched by the fire.

  A very big, very naked man.

  She stared at his back, which was broad and smooth. She took note of well-­muscled arms as he poked the fire. She followed the bumps of his spine down to a pair of dimples just above his round white buttocks.

  Her throat dried. She tried to sit up, but pain shot through her body, and the room wavered before her eyes. Her leg was on fire, pure agony. She let out a soft cry.

  He half turned at the sound and glanced over his shoulder, and she had a quick impression of a high cheekbone lit by the firelight, and a gleaming eye that instantly widened with surprise. He dropped the poker and fell on his backside with a grunt.

  “You’re awake!” he cried. She stared at him sprawled on the hearthstones, and he gasped again and cupped his hands over his—­ She shut her eyes tight, as he grabbed the nearest thing at hand to cover himself—­a corner of the plaid—­but she yanked it back, holding tight. He instantly let go and reached for the closest garment dangling from the line above him, which turned out to be her red cloak. He wrapped it awkwardly around his waist, trying to rise to his feet at the same time. He stood above her in his makeshift kilt, holding it in place with a white knuckled grip, his face almost as red as the wool. She kept her eyes on his face and pulled her own blanket tight around her throat.

  “I see you’re awake,” he said, staring at her, his voice an octave lower now. “How do you feel?”

  How did she feel? She assessed her injuries, tried to remember the details of how she came to be here, wherever here might be. She recalled being lost in a storm, and falling. There’d been blood on her glove. She frowned. After that she didn’t remember anything at all.

  She shifted carefully, and the room dissolved. She saw stars, and black spots, and excruciating pain streaked through her body, radiating from her knee. She gasped, panted, stiffened against it.

  “Don’t move,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers splayed, though he didn’t touch her. He grinned, a sudden flash of white teeth, the firelight bright in his eyes. “I found you out in the snow. I feared . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. Your knee is injured, cut, and probably sprained, but it isn’t broken,” he said in a rush. He grinned again, as if that was all very good news, and dropped to one knee beside her. “You’ve got some color back.”

  He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand, a gentle enough caress, but she flinched away and gasped at the pain that caused. He dropped his hand at once, looked apologetic. “I mean no harm, lass—­I was just checking that you’re warm, but not too warm. Or too cold . . .” He was babbling, and he broke off, gave her a wan smile, and stood up again, holding onto her cloak, taking a step back away from her. Was he blushing, or was it the light of the fire on his skin? She tried not to stare at the breadth of his naked chest, or the naked legs that showed beneath the trailing edge of the cloak.

  She gingerly reached down under the covers and found her knee was bound up in a bandage of some sort. He turned away, flushing again, and she realized the plaid had slipped down. She was as naked as he was. She gasped, drew the blanket tight to her chin, and stared at him. She looked up and saw that her clothes were hanging on a line above the fireplace—­all of them, even her shift.

  “Where—­?” she swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, her throat as raw as her knee. “Who are you?” she tried again. She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and panic formed a tight knot in her chest, and she tried again to remember what had happened, but her mind was blank. If he was—­unclothed, and she was equally unclothed—­

  “What—­” she began again, then swallowed the question she couldn’t frame. She hardly knew what to ask first, Where, Who, or What? Her mind was moving slowly, her thoughts as thick and rusty as her tongue.

  “You’re safe, lass,” he said, and she wondered if she was. She stared at him. She’d seen men working in the summer sun, their shirts off, their bodies tanned, their muscles straining, but she’d never thought anything of it. This—­he—­was different. And she was as naked as he was.

  “May I have my clothes?” she asked.

  “Oh—­of course.” He grabbed her shift, handed it to her. Her cloak slipped a little, revealing the jut of a male hip bone, the flat plane of his belly before he hitched the fabric back to his waist. He was tall—­his head was nearly touching the roof beams above him, but that might be a trick of the eye, since he was standing, and she was flat on the floor. He had red hair that glinted in the firelight like polished copper. The stubble of the beard on his cheeks shone too, making him look gilded, almost magical. Was he real? She shut her eyes, opened them again, but he didn’t disappear.

  He reached for her gown as well, dry and warm, if badly torn, and set it beside her on the plaid.

  “If you need my help with—­” he began, but she sent him a glare and snaked one hand out from under the cover to drag her clothing inside, bundling it for a moment against her belly, watching him warily. Even that small effort was exhausting.

  She watched as he took his shirt off the line and, with careful maneuvering, traded that garment for her cloak, covering what was necessary. Then, with one hand, he hung her cloak over the line to create a makeshift curtain between them.

  All she could see now were his ankles, well-­shaped and sinewy, and his feet, long and white against the hearthstones. He snatched his breeches off the line, and she watched one foot rise, then the other, as he drew them on. The soft hush of the cloth was intimate in the tiny room. Then he stood there, his feet still, and she realized he was offering her time to dress too. She clutched the plaid to her breasts, pulled her shift over her head, then her gown, and reached underneath to right the ties and buttons. Her fingers felt thick and awkward, and she managed to knot the ribbons of her shift, but the buttons on her gown were impossibly small, and she couldn’t fasten them. She gave up, held the two halves of her gown tightly over her breasts and stared at her boots, sitting near the fire next to his. Her stockings were nowhere to be seen.

  His hand emerged from behind the makeshift curtain, grabbed for his boots, put them on. “I’ll need to go out and check the garron. It will give you time for, ah—­whatever is necessary. I’m close enough to call if you should need any help.” Alanna felt a gust of cold air as he opened the door, then shut it firmly behind him. The silence was deafening.

  She pushed away the plaid and tried to rise. Her leg rejected the idea at once, and her head agreed. The rest of her limbs were as thick and slow as her fingers. She looked at the bandage that covered her knee—­a handkerchief, by the looks of it. There was a monogram done in awkward stiches, blue thread against white linen—­I.M. She untied the knot and winced. The scratches were deep and ugly, long claw marks left by the ferocio
us storm, savage as a mountain cat. The bruises were like shadows on snow, bronze and black, and her knee was twice the size it should have been.

  The door opened again. She flung her gown down over her naked leg, but the garment was torn from hem to knee, and it didn’t cover anything at all. Her buttons were open as well, and she had to make a choice. She grabbed the edges of her bodice and held them together in her fist.

  He stood and stared at her injured leg. He was wind tossed and cold, his skin flushed. He met her eyes. “The storm has stopped for the moment, but it looks like there’ll be more snow before very long. Can you travel?” He came closer, holding out his hands as if to show he had no weapon, and no evil intent. There was snow in his hair, and it began to melt, the drops shining like gems, making a halo around him, as if he were an angel, or something else otherworldly. Was this heaven? Had she—­ She forced her mind into order. Her leg wouldn’t hurt if this was heaven, and it wouldn’t be snowing, or cold, surely.

  “I think—­” she began. Her voice was thick, and she could not recall what she wished to say. She swallowed as he knelt beside her.

  “I should check your leg,” he said, his tone apologetic. “May I?”

  How polite he was, and there was nothing but kindness in his gray eyes. She nodded, knowing she could hardly fight. He shifted the folds of her gown, exposed as little of her flesh as she could. His hands were gentle, almost soothing, his long fingers dark and sure on the whiteness of her skin. She gasped at the pain, and he winced.

  “It’s not broken. I checked for other injuries—­”

  She stared at him. “You did?”

  His skin flushed again, but he met her eyes. “It was necessary, lass. I found you in a bad way. How did you come to be out in the storm?”

  She felt tears sting her eyes. “I got lost,” she said. He dipped the handkerchief into a bucket of cold water, wound it back around her knee. The cold shocked her. “I.M.—­is that you?” she asked through gritted teeth.